For a day that was begun so ill, the day passed fairly well. We
had the porridge cold again at noon, and hot porridge at night;
porridge and small beer was my uncle's diet. He spoke but
little, and that in the same way as before, shooting a question
at me after a long silence; and when I sought to lead him to talk
about my future, slipped out of it again. In a room next door to
the kitchen, where he suffered me to go, I found a great number
of books, both Latin and English, in which I took great pleasure
all the afternoon. Indeed, the time passed so lightly in this
good company, that I began to be almost reconciled to my
residence at Shaws; and nothing but the sight of my uncle, and
his eyes playing hide and seek with mine, revived the force of my
distrust.

One thing I discovered, which put me in some doubt. This was an
entry on the fly-leaf of a chap-book (one of Patrick Walker's)
plainly written by my father's hand and thus conceived: "To my
brother Ebenezer on his fifth birthday" Now, what puzzled me was
this: That, as my father was of course the younger brother, he
must either have made some strange error, or he must have
written, before he was yet five, an excellent, clear manly hand
of writing.

I tried to get this out of my head; but though I took down many
interesting authors, old and new, history, poetry, and
story-book, this notion of my father's hand of writing stuck to
me; and when at length I went back into the kitchen, and sat down
once more to porridge and small beer, the first thing I said to
Uncle Ebenezer was to ask him if my father had not been very
quick at his book.

"Alexander? No him!" was the reply. "I was far quicker mysel'; I
was a clever chappie when I was young. Why, I could read as soon
as he could."

This puzzled me yet more; and a thought coming into my head, I
asked if he and my father had been twins.

He jumped upon his stool, and the horn spoon fell out of his hand
upon the floor. "What gars ye ask that?" he said, and he caught
me by the breast of the jacket, and looked this time straight
into my eyes: his own were little and light, and bright like a
bird's, blinking and winking strangely.

"What do you mean?" I asked, very calmly, for I was far stronger
than he, and not easily frightened. "Take your hand from my
jacket. This is no way to behave."

My uncle seemed to make a great effort upon himself. "Dod man,
David," he said, "ye should-nae speak to me about your father.
That's where the mistake is." He sat awhile and shook, blinking
in his plate: "He was all the brother that ever I had," he added,
but with no heart in his voice; and then he caught up his spoon
and fell to supper again, but still shaking.

Now this last passage, this laying of hands upon my person and
sudden profession of love for my dead father, went so clean
beyond my comprehension that it put me into both fear and hope.
On the one hand, I began to think my uncle was perhaps insane and
might be dangerous; on the other, there came up into my mind
(quite unbidden by me and even discouraged) a story like some
ballad I had heard folk singing, of a poor lad that was a
rightful heir and a wicked kinsman that tried to keep him from
his own. For why should my uncle play a part with a relative
that came, almost a beggar, to his door, unless in his heart he
had some cause to fear him?

With this notion, all unacknowledged, but nevertheless getting
firmly settled in my head, I now began to imitate his covert
looks; so that we sat at table like a cat and a mouse, each
stealthily observing the other. Not another word had he to say
to me, black or white, but was busy turning something secretly
over in his mind; and the longer we sat and the more I looked at
him, the more certain I became that the something was unfriendly
to myself.